(BBC Sherlock) The Half States Relation
by astudyinredbeard
Summary: Sherlock and John have another case to crack... but will Baker Street's new resident have some explaining to do?
1. Chapter 1

**Hi! So this is my first ever fanfic and well I am worried about posting this... but you'll be nice.. won't you? Also this is based after The Sign of Three but it's as if His Last Vow never happened (it will happen - I just imagined a bigger gap between SoT and HLB).**

**Disclaimer - I own nothing but Rosie and the plot line. All rights go to Sir ACD, Moftiss... basically anyone who worked on BBC Sherlock.**

Chapter One

The afternoon sun cast a silhouette of chimneys onto the asphalt road that lined Baker Street. Once it was a calm, uneventful place to live, just one of many streets that you would stumble across in the city of London. However, that all changed a few years ago with the arrival of the eccentric Sherlock Holmes and his flatmate Dr John Watson. Sherlock and John had made a name for themselves as _Consulting Detectives _– a title fabricated by Sherlock – and they were spending their days assisting Scotland Yard when the police were out of their depth which, according to Sherlock, was always.

Many events had come and passed, Sherlock had faked his suicide (naturally, John didn't take it so well when Sherlock revealed this to him) and John had married Mary Morstan who was expecting a new arrival. Since the wedding, John had lived with his wife, leaving Sherlock to be alone at the home they used to share. Time had moved on since then but even they knew it wouldn't be the end of Sherlock and John's endeavors.

The landlady, Mrs. Hudson, was in her own flat having an in depth conversation with her neighbour Mrs. Turner over the phone. Sherlock sat in his black armchair by the unlit fireplace with the tips of his fingers pressed together and his hands pressed against his lips letting his glazed blue-green eyes stare into space.

Without warning he snapped into consciousness and darted towards the door reaching for his long navy Milford coat and a deep blue scarf that hung on the back of the green door that led into the living space of his flat. He hopped down the stairs as he put on his coat.

"Mrs. Hudson I'm going out for a while!" announced his deep baritone voice.

"Okay dear!" came the reply as Sherlock stepped out of the heavy black door and slammed it behind him. His messy black locks were momentarily reflected by the golden lettering that read: _221B._

He jogged over to the side of the road waving his hand in the air while yelling "taxi!" but the shiny black cab just ignored him and drove on. Sherlock gave a frustrated sigh and was about to retreat to the flat when he walked straight into a young woman sending the brown cardboard box she was holding onto the pavement and a dozen fabric bound books to tumble out of it.

"Oh God, um…" Sherlock said still in shock from clash.

The young woman bent down to retrieve the books, Sherlock paused for a moment before helping her. She had dark wavy hair that fit around her plump olive-skin face and dark brown eyes that seemed to blend with the colour of her pupils. Her lips were a cupid's bow shape and a small nose with a faint white scar under her left nostril. She was wearing a green t-shirt under a navy blue fleece, fitting blue jeans and designer trainers. However the object that caught Sherlock's eye was her large golden necklace that seemed to be ticking slowly.

"No, its fine I got it thanks… Oh God where is that-?"

"- The Woman in White?" Sherlock handed the navy fabric-covered book to her with a quizzical look in his eye.

"Thanks, um..." She fidgeted slightly, unsure what to say. "I'm Rosie, Hartwell. I presume you live here?"

"Yes, and I presume you're a new neighbour?"

"Yes, number 223. Sorry I didn't catch your name…"

"Sherlock Holmes."

"Hmm, odd name, I guess you'd be easy to find in the Phone Book" she remarked.

"Yes, well... Um, I couldn't help but notice your books quite old aren't they?"

"Well, yeah, I'd say so…"

"In fact I'd say they were unique copies. But where did you get them from? Their condition is too good to be slumped in some antique book store. Inherited perhaps? Wait no, definitely inherited, you have come into a fair bit of money recently haven't you?"

Rosie was startled by his response. "H-how did you ..?"

"It was number 223 didn't you say? Quite expensive, even with a friend, it's not exactly rocket science is it?"

"….I suppose not! Um, I have to get things moved in, but it was nice to meet you."

Sherlock looked after Rosie scuttling towards her new home before he hailed a cab that had been crawling down the road at that time. His head was full of thoughts that he quickly dismissed as he got into the taxi. There was something about her that Sherlock could not deduce from her appearance, but it had no importance to him at that moment – he had a case to solve.


	2. Chapter 2

**Next Chapter! I am trying to keep quite ahead to make sure that you don't end up waiting forever! **

**Disclaimer - I already told you that only Rosie is mine... oh well, you'll get it soon enough!**

"Nathan Ives, shot through the roof of 'is mouth, the others reckon it's just a suicide" Said the cockney voice that belonged to D.I. Lestrade. "His neighbour found him this morning."

"You don't think its suicide though, do you?"

"Well, I'm not quite sure to be honest, there's just something off about it…" Lestrade lead Sherlock into the terraced house then into a small baby-blue living room. There was a small armchair by the window next to an old box television and a mantelpiece that had a small framed photo of the victim and an older man in a uniform.

The room was occupied by a couple of faceless people in blue plastic boiler suits and a white mask that covered their nose and mouth. One of them was holding a camera snapping pictures of the lifeless figure that was sprawled across the blood-dyed rug. The victim's face was contorted, as if he was stressed by his current predicament. He was wearing a dark grey hooded jumper, light grey jogging bottoms and mud covered trainers. In his limp hand was a black handgun.

"He's been there for around thirteen hours." A female voice said. Sherlock turned to see the woman standing in the doorway.

"Ah, Sergeant Donovan, what a pleasure to see you here" Sherlock said in a sarcastic tone.

"I must admit I'm surprised you're here, neighbours say he was suicidal."

"Well actually we're still unsure that its suicide" Lestrade interrupted.

Sherlock turned towards the victim "Lestrade, when did the alert come through?"

"About, two hours ago? Why?"

"Two hours ago? Why not before?" Sherlock muttered to himself. He stepped towards the gun and crouched beside the victim. Pulling out a compact magnifier and examined the victim's mouth where the bullet had passed through. "Lestrade, have you filed for ballistics report?"

"No. Why, don't you think it was the gun in his hand?"

"I know it definitely wasn't his gun."

"And how, exactly, would you be sure of that?" Donovan piped.

"Thirteen hours ago!" Sherlock cried as he stood up with a flourish.

Lestrade and Donovan stared vacantly at the ecstatic man.

Sherlock groaned "what time was it thirteen hours ago?"

"Um, around eight o'clock last night?" Lestrade replied. Sherlock looked at them both hoping they would connect the dots that were as clear as day in his mind.

"What has that got to with anything?" Donovan asked with an accusing tone.

"Seriously, isn't it obvious?" Sherlock got no reply from his audience.

"I can't believe you lot sometimes…" Sherlock remarked. "Thirteen hours ago! Eight o'clock on a Friday night? No one in this area would be asleep at that time! But no one reported the gun crime until this morning so that must mean no one heard it. And it's obvious that this was the place he was killed so the gun he used had to have a suppressor of some kind to quieten the shot, however there is none and also the gun he holding? Often used in the police force. Look at the picture on the mantelpiece, him and his father in a police uniform, so the gun must be his father's – guns used in the police force aren't designed to fit a suppressor therefore someone else shot him and made it look like suicide. And people will believe it because he was suicidal. How clever! But clearly not intelligent enough to realise that no one would hear the shot so actually our killer is a bit of an idiot now isn't he? "

"Alright, so we're looking for a murderer. What do we do?" Donovan asked.

Lestrade was still stunned before realising the question that had been asked. "Um, right yeah. Why don't you ask the neighbours if they saw anyone around the time of the murder."

Donovan nodded and left swiftly. Lestrade looked at the motionless figure before turning to Sherlock. "So how can we find out who it is?"

"Well we know that the victim knew his killer since there is no sign of a struggle. Maybe a friend who took him by surprise?" Sherlock answered.

"That's one hell of a friend. Just walks up to him and shoots 'im in the mouth?"

"Indeed." Sherlock stared down at the body. "I'll need his shoes."

"Wait what?"

"They're covered in fresh mud, might tell us where he was before he came home yesterday. Can you have them sent to Barts?"

"Oh, of course, that makes more sense, I'll send them to you once we got everything sorted."

Sherlock left in a hurry hailed a nearby cab. "St. Bartholomew's Hospital." The Cabbie nodded and drove on. Sherlock sat in the back seat staring out of the window.

"Actually could we make a short stop on the way?"


End file.
